New Beginnings
by Megan Night
Summary: Phantom of the Opera, now simply known as Erik Souverain, makes an impulsive decision a visit to his long lost kingdom. There in the dark underneath the abandoned theater, he meets a ghost from his past. He learns the present is a stark contrast from the last time they met. But was this a chance encounter or a new beginning? (Warning: Abuse and M for future chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Part 1

In the shadows of the city of lights, a rat scurried along a damp brick wall in the dead of night turning into a drain with metal covering as water trickled out into the sewer below. In this desolate area a shadow ghosted over to the drainage. Its cover gave away on rusted hinges, swinging open with a low whine.

A memory flashed, an agonized cry came from a broken man as he pulled on the cursed barrier locking him out of his world and home. If time had eaten away this very blockade to his lost kingdom, he then must have been a forgotten nightmare to his angel…

He cringed at the thought. His music, his empire, everything… disappeared the night she vanished.

He couldn't shake this nostalgia of the past, even if he learned to put them from his mind. It worsened as he easily found his way through the maze of tunnels. Time was unimportant in this tomb. Damp stale air greeted him as he came into the great chamber connected to the underground lake.

Ah, the ransacked ruins of his empire. He picked his way through the broken pieces of glass, fallen mirrors, knocked down candle stands, and broken various objects… even his piano was tipped over and parts missing as if dismantled. Some of it was his fault. He smashed the mirrors in anguished that night before escaping down a hidden passage.

He came here in hopes to retrieve some keepsakes, but nothing was salvageable. He sighed in annoyance. The years he spent building this place were discarded in a night. He started from scratch again. His current creation was just beginning to take shape. However, he did learn from all this and his brief lapse of insanity, he was quiet and humble now. He would not let himself become arrogant… or desperate like last time.

Picking through the living area, he came to his old sleeping quarters. It was untouched, the curtain was still down. He chuckled that people didn't care touch this area. Lifting the sheer curtain, everything remained waiting his return. On the nightstand lay a white mask. His hand reached out to pick it up, but slowly withdrew. No, he couldn't wear it, lest he get caught despite being just a figment of the public's imagination. Even as an urban legend, he couldn't risk it.

A distant crash made him jerk in surprise as he held his breath.

Nothing moved in the silence. He dimmed his lamp as a soft echo came across the lake. Maybe he should leave it could be a trap. Was it possible this place was still watched? The abandoned building above was boarded up. Still he dared not to go into it.

Against his better judgment, his eyes drifted to the boat that lay just down the steps waiting for him. "Damn," he whispered, bringing his lamp with him as he approached it. It wasn't sturdy, but it would do.

Slowly and silently he drifted to the sound. Again memories swept in taking away his focus, how many times had he traveled this route? The statues he past would carry torches to light the way in this dark tunnel. As he got closer to the soft sound, a light's glow emitted from around a corner. As he rounded this corner in a cautious pace, he found the light's source was a lamp on the very bottom step leading up to the opera house next to...

It couldn't be…

_Christine_?!


	2. Chapter 2

Reviews are appreciated, especially if you notice any typos. I don't have beta readers and I may miss some things even after a couple edits.

Thank you.

* * *

His heart froze.

That was impossible.

She gasped and went still when she heard the boat. He took in her wide eyes and mess of curls splayed wildly about her shoulders as he neared. She was not the angel from his precious memory. He patiently waited for this haunting apparition to fade away, yet she remained even as the boat came to the steps she sat on.

Yes, this one appeared much worse compare to the previous beautiful and glowing mirages. Her cheekbones were prominent in her almost gaunt face like a hungry street orphan. Her hands were dirty as was the bottom of her cloak and rather simple dress.

He couldn't look away from those sullen bruised eyes.

He also didn't expect it to speak.

"Erik…?"

The voice was quiet, a child-like whisper with fragile hope.

He stilled not realizing he was already stepping out of the boat. There was a crunch underfoot.

He lifted his boot, noticing the shattered glasses.

"You're real."

Neither was sure who said it, maybe both.

"What happened to you?" He asked unknowingly reaching out to touch her, she automatically flinched.

She ran a hand through her hair, mumbling, "They didn't help."

"When did this start?"

She shrugged, moving her hair to flow over her shoulders and around her neck. "Things were blurry as a ballet dancer. I didn't notice. It got worse after I left with him."

"You're foolish enough to venture down here in the dark when you can't see? What if you fell?"

"Are you already lecturing me, Angel of Music?" Her laugh was dry, hollow, and aged. "Just like old times." In the candlelight, he caught sight of dark marks on her throat. He automatically reached out to touch them. She recoiled as he moved her hair. They were the imprints of fingers. He growled as she turned away with her head bowed to protect her already tender neck.

"I come down here often. I know every step, where the booby trap is, and the crumbling step behind me. I always wished for this. I'm afraid I have fallen asleep on the steps again waiting for you."

"Darling, this isn't a dream."

"Prove it."

With a second thought or word, he kissed her, capturing her lips, stealing her breath. Parting he stood up, pulling her with him. They couldn't stay here; he wouldn't let her go back. She glanced at the boat and he shook his head, "No angel, not that way. It is a ruin."

"Then where?"

"My home," he answered, but paused remembering his mistake in the past of trying to force her into anything. She was not a naive child and he... was not desperate or deranged anymore. "If you are willing come."

Her hand gently touched her throat, "I don't want to go back there."

With that they were gone moving quickly up the winding stairs. Christine boldly led the way through the tunnels, entering the abandoned dormitory, and out a side door, which she put a false barricade on.

Hand in hand, they walked down the boulevard to smaller streets as houses lost their grandeur to shanties or to abandoned shacks until one house that stood out. It was once ruined from long disuse and inhabited with people who lived like rats. Now it was amidst repairs with several tenants. Erik went straight into this house as light poured out onto the wild grass from its windows. Christine shielded her eyes coming in, blinking at the ornate foyer.

"Erik," a woman greeted, in a lush velvet dress, with large curled hair clipped back to one side and draped down her right shoulder. She glanced at Christine, scrunching her nose, "She's new."

Erik nodded to her. His hand tightened around Christine's as they passed, "Morine." When they went up the stairs, Christine briefly glanced back at the woman and up to Erik, as two more people cheerfully greeted him. The second floor was plain with bare walls, but the third was just as decorated foyer. On this floor there were only two doors that faced each other.

"Is this where you live?"

"Yes this is my flat."

"Who was that woman, Morine?"

"The landlord, she lives in that one." He tilted his head to the door opposite of them. He unlocked the door before he beckoned her inside. This room was an echo of his former underground chamber. Rugs covered the cold floor as tapestries and paintings covered the walls. His bed, though it was not his beloved giant swan, was a four corner poster canopy bed centered in middle of the room. Against the right wall was a large antique desk under the window for the best view of inspiration. Half of the back wall had a floor to ceiling bookshelf crammed the books and loose papers stuck in these or in protective covers. Next to the bookshelf across from the bed was his wide armoire upon which his masks lay. The bathroom was nestled in the back corner. A couch and chaise lounge formed a sitting area near the door where Erik dumped his cloak unceremoniously onto the couch before lighting candles to fill the room with a soft glow.

Christine stood silently gazing the blurred shapes to the desk, bed, and him. He watched, as her gaze didn't focus on anything except for him.

"It's lovely," she said, sitting down on the couch.

He smiled bowing his head slightly, "There is still much to be done. The kitchen was just recently finished. A few of the bedrooms still need to be fixed, if only their inhabitants would let workers into them..."

She smiled, "The opera ghost is talking about house repairs."

He stopped, then smiled, "Yes, I am. Quite different from the last time we met which was under than less than desirable circumstances."

Her eyes flickered over the simple black mask covering the right side of his face. "What has happened to you?"


	3. Chapter 3

"I could say the same to you Christine." 

Her eyes cast down, as she swallowed, "One of us changed for the better. The difference in your voice… you're happy. The confidence and self assurance are back. They were gone from your voice when the house changed owners." 

He slowly approached her, sitting on the couch beside her, "When one has lost everything, fallen to the worst possible low, they can only rebuild themselves back up." 

"How did you do it?" 

"With help. And a lot of it," he said, cupping her cheek, "And you... What has happened to my angel?" 

Tears filled her eyes. The bruises marred her neck were visible in the candle light. "She fell and can't fly anymore." 

"Can you still sing?" 

"Sometimes," she choked, gently holding her throat, "Not when he does this. When one can't sing... much less see, one doesn't belong on the stage." 

"Christine..." 

"That's all I was, a pretty new star. People are forgetting my name. When they skipped over me for the lead role, he got so angry… I can't even be the understudy because I can't move on stage. I tutor on the sidelines." 

He threw his arm around her, trying to quell the murderous rage in his blood. "Erik... I'm sorry I failed you. All the years of teaching wasted." 

He shook his head, "No darling. Nothing was ever wasted. You were my only light in the dark. Your voice was my only key to the music of the night. Even now you still are." He said, kissing away her tears, her eyes lids, everywhere but her lips. 

That was what she needed to hear, to be still be wanted, to be cherished. She grasped his face, fingers skimming over his mask, to entwine with his hair. She kissed him, breaking into his slack mouth with her tongue as his hand fluttered at her sides surprised. 

"I missed you," she breathed. 

These simple words broke the last of his restraint. To hell with it, he lunged capturing her lips once more. In a whirl, they were entangled in each other, knocking into furniture as they staggered to the bed, tearing off clothes. His shirt was loose; her fingers tore at the fabric sending buttons flying. At once her hands were upon the newly revealed flesh, greedily feeling the toned muscle under smooth skin, ridding him of the fabric all together. He unknowingly groaned, pushing his hips into her. God he wanted her. 

His lips attacked to her neck. A pained gasped escaped her as he bit and sucked the already tender column. He pulled back, reminded of the ugly bruises already marring her skin. As the lust in his eyes faded, she ground her hips against his, "Erase them. Erase everything about him. Please." 

He did, making new bruises over old.

Despite the pain, her head tilted back and her hands were in his hair. His lips traced down to her collarbone, down her sternum, then met the fabric of her dress. Annoyed, his hands ripped it apart and picked her up shedding it off her.

He stilled gazing at the traces of yellow faded bruises on her arms and thighs, eyes missing the swell of her breasts and hips. She pulled him down, clashing their mouths together. When he tried to pull away, she growled and flipped them over. "You do it or I will. There is no stopping," she said against his lips. She would be damned if he stopped now. 

When there was a muffled protest, her hand snaked down, grasping him, and earned a startled groan.

"Do not think..." she whispered

Everything else was lost when her hand moved slowly up and down. He moaned again, his hips pushing upwards into her hand. God, he wanted out of these pants _now_. They were gone the next moment, he wasn't sure who did it, and didn't care. She was kissing him, moving sinfully against him, stroking him.

He couldn't think. His hands were at her sides, feeling her ribs and muscle move beneath the flesh. They held her soft breasts, her sharp hip bones, greedily slid up her legs and thighs... They were everywhere squeezing mounds of flesh in gluttony until he pulled her sharply down against him as he bucked. She moaned, her hands splayed out against his chest to balance herself as he did it again. She moved with him.

His hand mimicked hers, reaching in between her thighs. His name fell from her lips in a needy demand. He resisted taking her then and there, fingers splayed out against her before delving into her heat, taking his time. He would not hurt her despite the urgency of her hips and the painful hardness of himself. She rocked against him, whimpering in his ear, "Erik, please now."

When he continued to tease her, she had enough. She kissed him hard, lifted herself from his lap, removed his hand, and guided his length into her as she sank back down again. They both cursed the heavens in pleasure as he sheathed inside her. His feet planted hard against the ground to keep balance on the edge on the bed and she on her tiptoes with her legs draped over his hips as she moved to lift herself once more.

He lost himself, one arm snaked around her waist and he threw the other over her shoulder. He thrust fast and hard, engulfed in her scent, touch and heat. He knew not what they said between the clash of lips, mantras of names, moans and ragged breaths. He knew not how erratic his thrusts became or the bleeding scratches that adorned his back. He only knew the tightening heat around him and the distant scream as the heat suddenly contracted.

Her whole body contracted as her head was thrown back and nails clawed across his shoulders, grasping desperately for some sanity before tipping over the edge of this painful pleasure she wanted to get away from but more off. The fire then roared through her muscles snaking through her very veins as she lost sense of everything in this burning pleasure.

Erik followed in the midst of hers, the coiling in his gut sprung loose. Pleasure flared throughout to his body to his fingers and toes. He emitted a shout as he released before sagging into her arms. His head was on her shoulder as he panted. She brushed the hair stuck to her forehead as her head rested against his, gaining back her breath.

Slowly she straightened up, smoothing back Erik's damp hair with both hands, tilting his head up. His eyes were partly closed and hazy as he looked up at her. She smiled, tenderly placing a kiss on his lips. When she moved, his grip tightened.

"Stay," he mumbled, this was where the dreams ended. Already the murkiness of sleep was tugging at him.

"I will," she promised, gently disconnecting them, "But I want to get into the bed. It's cold." He nodded, pulling back the covers, getting in alongside with her before pulling the covers over them as she tucked herself into his side. He extinguished the oil lamp on the nightstand and the candles would burn themselves out. He went to bury his face in her hair, but she was studying him and curiously reached up.

He caught her wrist, "No prying Pandora."

"You're going to sleep with it on?" She asked wanting to touch the simple black mask that had stayed in place during their lovemaking. He nodded, kissing her forehead, settling back down as she moved to lay her head on his chest and said no more. Within minutes, her breathing was even as she lay limp. He battled the urge to do the same. Steadily losing, he knew what awaited him in the morning...

How sweet these dreams were.

He knew that the loneliness of a cold, empty bed would await him in the morning when he awoke in a cold sweat, aroused and heart aching. Morine would later yell at him for sulking in his room. But for now he didn't care. _She_ was here beside him, accepting and adoring. He gathered the dream in his arms, kissing her hair, whispering, "Please stay."


	4. Chapter 4

Eric awoke to a precise knock at his door. His head jerked, startled by the warm presence. She couldn't be knocking and by his side. The soft mound of brown curls in the corner of his vision moved. Eric pulled back as the brunette buried herself into the blanket.

She was there...

Memories of last night flashed as he stared at her nude body. Another part of him was picking up interest as well. There was another sharp knock, three taps on the door in quick succession.

Damn Morine!

He briskly got out of bed into the chilly air and cracked open the door, "What?"

Morine stood in all her finery, even early in the morning. Her hair still gracefully draped over shoulder and her arms were crossed. An eyebrow rose as she eyed him, making the delicate wrinkles around her dark eyes prominent. "What?" He hissed again. After another moment he opened the door fully revealing himself in all his glory.

She sighed, before quipping, "I didn't take you to be lecherous."

"Or you to be jealous."

She frowned, "Watch yourself, Mr. Souverain. I will not be looking in the sewers for you."

He rolled his eyes, "I will not..."

Her hand snatched his head bringing his ear down to her lips, "Erik do not be stupid. It's _that_ girl in your bed that Giry told us about. Do not let her cloud your mind, you have..."

He pulled back to shut her up with a quick kiss. "Yes Mrs. Souverain, I won't forget."

She gave him her look, as she stalked back to her own apartment. He was in for it. But with a glance back at Christine as he shut the door, he forgot.

Christine buried her head into the pillow as she snuggled into the covers. She was warm and comfortable, so comfortable... She opened her eyes. None of her beds were this soft. Not the one at the house, not the one at Giry's place or the one in the dorms. She sat up, looking at the blurred room, light spilled from a window to her left, onto a desk, and a great expansive dark wall.

Where on earth...?

She looked down at her bare chest, the marks of love upon her skin. Last night dawned on her.  
"Erik?!" She called scrambling to get up. The room was too quiet. She was alone. He couldn't leave her here. She fell pulling the sheets with her. Erik who was the couch reading, was soon at her side, knelt on one knee, with a hand on her arm.

"I'm here. What's wrong?" He asked looking into her frightened eyes that darted about the room and settled on him. Her hand reached out touching his face he instinctively leaned into it as he did often with Morine. But this was not... in a second he tried to pull away, cursing he was too comfortable with not wearing his mask. Christine only looked confused at him when he reached to cover his face. Her gaze remained unchanged as he pulled his hand away; the pupils had no reaction to the revealed sight. "Christine... even at this distance?"

She leaned forward making their noses touch. Here was where his face came into focus, "If I can or not, it doesn't matter..." With that she kissed his scarred cheek. For the second time in twenty four hours Erik wasn't sure if he was truly awake or not. He pulled Christine up and divested himself of the pants he wore. They fell back into the bed where they stayed for the rest of the afternoon.

Outside in the hall, Morine closed her door to glare at the one across from her as she slowly walked to the stairs. He had been holed up in that room all day. She paused steadily listening to muted banging against the wall followed by a deep groan.

She shook her head, going down the stairs, "Fool."

The sunset threw shadows about the room as Erik lit a few candles. He seemed at ease, smiling at the dozing one in the bed. Her stomach growled angrily back at him. Ah he did forget something today. He gently reached out as she looked at him under heavy lids, "Let's go eat." She gave a muffled agreement, searching for her clothes that appeared on the bed as Erik found them.

"Thank you," she said quickly dressing. She was unaware that he again was studying her bruises. Before he could ask if they hurt, she quickly stood up, ruffling her hair, "Shall we go?"

He nodded leading the way, her hand in his. He had many questions he wanted to ask but they all died upon his lips. What could he ask or say? He still didn't know and Christine felt the same. In the silence, she found other uses for their mouths, they didn't need to speak. She didn't want to talk of the past or the present. She knew there questions on the tip of his tongue from the concerned tone behind his casual words.

Erik had hoped they had missed dinner but entered into a bustling kitchen. Morine was shouting commands to a tall man who shouted back at her as he stood at the oven. "It's not my fault the boy was late with the pig!"

"Not again," Erik signed, quickly seating Christine on a stool near the door, before coming to Morine's side.

"Don't blame me old man! The butcher was trying to swindled money out of me!" A teenage boy shouted across the kitchen preparing food.

"You're always late!"

"Then don't make me go do errands across the goddamn town!"

"ENOUGH!" Both Erik and Morine shouted. The bickering two immediately stopped looking at them as they stood side by side.

"Jack do as you're told and have more pride in doing your chores since you refuse to attend your lessons. And John don't send him to the butcher three miles away if you don't want him late. There's one a half mile from here," Erik lectured.

"But that one has the good meat," John muttered back.

"No more sending him there. He'll go to the one nearby. He has to have time for his tutoring lessons," Morine said, eyeing Jack who crossed his arms and pouted.

"I'd rather get a dead pig from the crooked old man."

"No more from either of you," Erik said, "Jack set the table and get the others."

He rolled his eyes, then noticed Christine. "Hey who's she?"

Erik placed a hand on his back, pushing him out the door, "Just go!"

"I'm going. I'm going," he grumbled in the dining room glancing back at Christine.

Erik sighed, annoyed. He glimpsed back to see John and Morine looking at Christine who listened curiously. "John are you finished yet?" he snapped and John returned to his cooking. Erik gently took Christine by the hand and led her into the dining room.

The dining room had a too large of a table with overstuffed chairs in it. They sat on the end with her on the corner. She recognized the table, its overly ornate legs ending in lion claws and sharp corners that the ballet girls had bumped into one too many times in the backrooms. Her hands ran over the edge smiling and disbelieving, "How did you get this?"

"It was abandoned... I merely had someone go fetch it and gave it new life," he said running a hand over it as a rumble of voices came down the hall. A group of four led by Jack burst into the room.

"Erik, you brought company? How rare!" A woman greeted, smiling at Christine.

"This is Christine," he introduced, "Christine, this Jack, Anna, Claude and Danielle."

She nodded smiling at the figures draped in green, blue, white and black, "Hello."

They greeted her and she smiled back unaware of the burns that danced across Danielle's hands and arm, Claude missing a hand, Anna's limp and Jack's burned arms and white eye with jagged scar that ran across it from his forehead to his cheek. They talked amiably as they went into the kitchen to retrieve the plates and food, setting the table with a feast. Christine was lost as figures moved about and the room was loud with clattering plates and chatter. Erik remained next to her, grabbing bowls to fill both their plates, yelling at Jack who was next to him for hogging the bread and bickering with Morine who was right next to Jack about the wine she choose.

Christine ate quietly, not quite believing the scene around her or that the man next to her was once the phantom she knew. She listened as Erik and Jack get into an argument, apparently they moved passed Jack's bread hogging.

"You were not..."

"I was..."

"No way in hell you were ever an assassin!"

Christine paused looking up from her plate. Did she hear right?

"And the architect for the Shaw of Persia as well," Erik added.

Jack rolled his eyes. "You couldn't be that AND the Opera Phantom."

"Opera Ghost." Christine corrected, earning a shocked look from Jack, "And yes he was."

"Were you there?!"

"He was my tutor," she paused, looking at Erik as Morine's eyes narrowed at her.

Jack groaned in disappointment, "Lies! See he's just an old man who loves his damn books and music!"

Erik groaned putting his head in his hand, "You call me 'old' one more time and I will hang you."

"Hah! Like you can tie a noose."

"Then I'll bludgeon you with your history book about the French revolution first thing in the morning!"

"Not if I'm not home!" Jack shouted, Christine looked at him worried. She wouldn't have dared to talk back when she was his age…

"Don't worry dear; Erik is truly all bark and no bite," Anne said to Christine, from across the table. Christine turned to her, as Erik growled at Jack. "The one who you should be worry about when they're angry is Morine here. Once a stonemason came here to fix the walls of what is now our living room. He gave Danielle here one wrong look and Morine slapped him so hard he had a mark like the rest of us for the entire time he was here!"

A mark like the rest of them?

Before Christine could ask, Erik let out an exasperated sigh, "Morine help me!"

"Nah, he's got a point..."

"What?" They both looked at her, even the others were now listening.

"Honestly you couldn't be all those things. Skills of an assassin, architect or composer take years to master. John here just barely mastered his cooking after twenty years. You've already proven to be a great scholar. So you couldn't be all those things, either you're lying or... you're old." She smiled sweetly as the room broke into laughter minus Christine.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, "You are not helping."

"I wasn't planning on it," she grinned as he glared, his lips even forming a pout.

Christine slowly lowered her fork. They knew more about him than she did... and they weren't afraid of him. He argued vehemently with the boy and woman but with a secret smile and a false harsh tone. What made her heart sink the most was that he was not wearing a mask, something that was once _a part_ of him. She frowned, looking down, what had she hoped in following him? Did she want to find the mad lonely broken man that she didn't choose? She had no right to believe or even think he would be waiting for her.

He had found his place... and he was _happy_.

Erik turned midsentence to her when he noticed her head bow, "Christine?" He lifted her chin when she didn't look up at him.

Morine's chair screeched across the floorboards as she sharply stood up to answer the door that only she seemed to hear.

"I'm fine," Christine lied smiling and resisting the desire to lean into his touch.

The person at the door barged into the dining room like a storm. "THERE you are."

Christine knew Madame Giry's voice before she pulled her up from her seat, "Is this where you been all this time?! We thought you went missing!"

"Giry," Erik said standing up, "She's is welcome here and can stay if she wants." His eyes were on Christine who avoided his gaze, staring at the floor. Morine and Giry both shot angry him looks although Giry was more irritated.

"No she has a performance to practice for. The lead has laryngitis! And here you were hiding."

"What?" Christine said ignoring her glare. She had a role now?!

"Giry," Erik said his tone full of warning, his eyes motioned to the bruises on her neck.

"This doesn't concern you," she warned pulling Christine from the room and house without another word. Everyone silently stared at Erik who crossed his arms glaring at Morine who stood at the doorway glaring back.

In the carriage, Christine sharply to Giry, "You told me he was dead."

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Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello again. Please enjoy and remember, reviews are always appreciated!

He started after them, but Morine blocked his path, "Let her go Erik." 

"Do not stop me!" 

"Let. Her. Go." Morine said firmly not budging.

He growled, grabbing her by the shoulders. How dare she?! That was Christine! _His_ angel of music! The one who could give a voice to the music only he could hear. The only who could give his music LIFE. Even now the faded memory of her unearthly singing haunted him.

"She is only poison to your mind. She is not the only thing Erik. Bring yourself back." She didn't want to hurt him, but his confused eyes showed she would have to break him and resurface the hurt from years ago. She shouldn't have ever let him gone to that damn theater. She grasped his face, "She ran away from you. She didn't pick you. She is not yours. She only used you because she was hurt. Remember where you are now and who you are with. Look at around you at Jack, John, Danielle, Anne and most importantly me. Look at _me_ Erik."

The anger fell away, despair and sadness flashing in them at her words, settling into acceptance. They watched her face, her lips, tracing down to the left shoulder where her hair fell away revealing deeply angry pink uneven scarred skin that raced down her back and arm to her hand. He leaned down, their lips meeting in a loving but consuming kiss. She meant more to him than he could possibly explain...

"Get a room!" Jack shouted across from the table.

Morine pulled away, telling him to shut up before looking back at Erik, "Now were you really so wrapped in by each other that neither of you noticed your rings?"

_

"You told me he was dead."

"Yes and you still found him."

"But why?!" Christine demanded, remembering the night she told her.

_She was at the steps, all her unopened letters still neatly placed in the alcove in the wall. Giry followed her down as she went to place another asking for him to come back. "He will not answer, nor ever will." _

_Christine looked at her so innocently, like a child about to hear news of her lost puppy. Her words crushed her, "He's dead. This place is only a tomb. There is no longer an angel of music."  
_

_Christine shook her head, "No. Please no! Giry why? How?!" She clung to her dress as she sank to her knees, her breath caught in her throat before weeping. _

_"Child do I really have to explain why or how after that night? Was that tortured cry which echoed through the tunnels not enough?"  
_

_"No. I wanted to tell him..."  
_

_"You're sorry? You pick him instead?" Giry sighed, "It's too late for that. You made your choice."_

"You broke my heart that night." Christine said, "Why did you lie?" 

"I'll be damned if you ruin that man again. He is a stranger to you. You made your choice. Erik did not become the man he is now by remembering you. He is where he belongs now. You are not to see him again."

"You can't stop me."

"I can and I will. I warned you Raoul would not the same if he lived and I wouldn't be able to protect you if you chose to stay. You should have ended it with a pillow over his face. It would have be kinder than to let that shadow live." She huffed motioning to her bruises.

"He's still in there!" Christine shouted, "My Raoul still exists, because he's in there, I _can't_ leave. I just can't."

Giry sighed, looking out the window, "If you insist. But I will not find you with Erik again. Morine will not allow it either. She brought him back from his madness and is rightfully at his side."

Christine only glared like a sulking child, "It didn't seem that way when I was with him." 

"Enough of this. Your actions are unacceptable," Giry said sternly, switching topics. "Your presence at the theater is still expected even if you do not have a role."

"Of course you lied. You always do."

"These lies affect more than you. They protect others." 

"Then what lies did you tell Raoul? Does he think I'm in the dorms?" She glared at Giry's silence, "Where is he? Is he gambling or at the whore house?" 

Giry shrugged, they hadn't heard from him and no one searched. Christine closed her eyes in irritation and shook her head muttering, "You should have left me with Erik."

"You don't belong there."

Christine silently glared out the window letting Giry have the last word.

The coach soon arrived at Giry's humble house several blocks from the opera house. It was a narrow two story with a garden in the front. Christine was greeted with the scent of flowers and Meg in the doorway. Giry nodded to her daughter with Christine's wrist in her hand like she would run away. Inside Meg hugged her, looking her over, "Where were you? We were all worried…"

"I'm sorry, I met an old friend and decided to stay with them."

"Who…?"

She kissed her cheek, "I'll tell you tomorrow. I am tired, good night."

Giry gave Meg a nod, to let Christine go. Christine closed the door to her room. It use to be a guest room, but after years of her stuff being in there, it was hers. It was small, the bed and armoire made it feel cramped, it was almost cluttered with the washbasin in the corner and the nightstand by the bed. She put on a nightgown and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, she quickly blew out the candle and rolled over to hide her face.

Meg's light unsure steps, lingered outside the door. After a moment she retreated and back down the steps. She released a sigh, thumbing her wedding ring. She couldn't get rid of the memory of the cold metal of his ring against her heated flesh when the back of his hand brushed her cheek.

Her hand moved to touch the love marks upon her breasts. She wished they would stay but needed them to fade… before Raoul came back to find her.

She sighed and had to conclude that those twenty four hours were only a dream. Life would return to normal tomorrow.

But could she really continue like before knowing he was there? Was she good enough to leave him alone? Or just selfish enough to try to take him back?


	6. Chapter 6

In the predawn, footsteps and a cane coming down the hall woke her from her slumber. She turned over on the hard bed, burying her head into the pillow to block the sound. Giry unceremoniously opened the door and yanked the covers off her. She walked away only to repeat this to Meg who gave a shout of discontent. "Up the both of you! We have to go now."

Christine groaned, reaching for her glasses on the bedside table and found nothing. Annoyed, she slumped out of bed onto her knees feeling around on the floor. She must have knocked them off some time during the night.

"Damn it, where are they…" The memory of breaking glass on a stone step flashed in her mind.

Her eyes softened as her touched her tender neck, that wasn't a dream…

Giry yelled for both of them to hurry up, snapping her back to reality.

"Coming!" She automatically in unison with Meg and rushed to put on clothes. Christine brushed out her hair, listening to Meg fumble around. She glanced at her nightstand before tossing her brush onto it, wondering if she should go rummaging her spares. She shook her head, they didn't help anyway.

A blurred figure stood in the doorway, "Are you ready?"

She gave a quick nod and followed Meg down the stairs as Giry waited for them by the door.

The walk to the theater was silent as Meg was too tired to pay attention to anything and Christine was in no mood to talk. Giry filled the silence with the day's schedule.

The theater was quiet when they arrived. The girls were just waking up in the dorms and everyone else was just arriving. The director was already on stage with script in hand talking to the composer. He nodded to Giry then did a double take. "Christine!" He said approaching them. She was taken aback by the concern in his voice as he approached and further when he hugged her

"Where were you?" He asked as relief flooded his voice.

"At a friend's." Giry said shortly, Christine felt her stern look.

"A friend…" she said, covering her neck with her hair. "I hadn't seen in a while invited to me stay the night." He saw them anyway, mistaking the fresh ones to be marks of violence.

He frowned but said nothing. He couldn't. The Changy family was the small theater's main patrons and essentially wrote his paycheck. "You can rest for the day," he said, "Ann will be in a fitting for her costume until the afternoon."

"I do not need to rest," She protested suddenly annoyed that she cast off to the side again. Too often, she was advised to rest because she looked 'fatigued' whenever she had bruises. "Let me keep the role, I will tutor Ann until the show. Raoul will be calm by then."

"Fine," he sighed, "Stay off on to the side."

Christine gave a curt nod, and gently waved off Meg as she headed to the dressing room. She said nothing as Meg remained by her side. Neither commented on when she gently pulled Christine to the left on their walk to avoid stepping on a pile of rope.

In the dressing room, the make-up artist, Martha, was setting up her supplies and smiled when they came it. They smiled back warmly and Meg disappeared to get ready as Martha seated Christine in front a mirror and set a plate of fattening sweets in her lap. She spoke sweetly but rapidly as she filled Christine in on gossip. Martha expertly, with brushes and powders, returned the color back into Christine's pale flesh, the rosiness to her cheeks, the youth back into her eyes and made the bruises disappear. She then fixed her hair, returning the luster to her curls as it was pulled away from her face to cascade down her back. Christine ate what she could and thanked her as she did every morning for temporarily fixing her. She wished at times she could see her lovely work, but couldn't without getting so close to the mirror she could feel the looks of pity. She didn't need any more of that.

She spent the rest of the day smiling until her face hurt, waving off questions as she patiently waited during Anna's fitting. Afterwards they rehearsed the scenes with the cast and she would pull Anna off to the side to practice the parts she missed.

It was dusk when she returned home. She kindly refused staying at Giry's or at the theater, slipping away before anyone offered to walk her home. She knew every uneven stone of the sidewalk and every small shop on the way there. She often stopped at the bakery on the corner but today she just wanted to go home and sleep.

The house was quiet when she entered and her nose twitched at the musty smell. The windows hadn't been open and the house was deserted with furniture tipped over or pushed away from the walls. She huffed picking up the thrown over coat rack. "Again?" she muttered, fixing the china cabinet in the dining room and pulled out the third drawer to find the bills hidden underneath missing. As she straightened the furniture, she began to sing to fill the silence. Her voice was cherry as she emptied the bottles of alcohol she found stashed away.

Before retiring to bed by herself, she locked the door and barricaded it with the china cabinet. Fresh air would be good for the drunk as he sobered up outside for the night.

Erik greeted her in her dreams.

The morning air was crisp as she stepped outside to go to work. She frowned at the body sleeping on the bench beside the door and walked passed her husband without another glance.

Martha greeted her with the usual plate of sweets and made her presentable. The day passed with Anna straining to hit the high note of her solo no matter what Christine told her to do. "Let's move on before you injure your vocal cords. How do you feel about act three?" She said, holding the script up close.

"Christine…"

She heard his voice as it echoed through the room with its false sweetness. "Director! How are you this afternoon?"

"Well, Mr. Chagny. Christine is just practicing her solo…"

"Good. I have to speak to you about…" Then their voices dropped down to low whisper.

"Anna listen carefully to the changes of pitch," she said stepping away to sing.

When she finished, the director approached clapping, "Marvelous. The audience will love it. Now excuse me, Anna come along."

She nodded as they took their leave and a strong stench of cologne surrounded her, her nose scrunched, "Raoul."

"Christine."

"I see you didn't return last night," she said looking at the script, blocking the sight of him.

"I did, the door was locked," he hissed, stepping closer.

"Returning at dawn does not count. Cold air is good for dull senses. What did you speak to the director about?"

"When you get paid."

"Unbelievable!" She said dropping the paper from her face, exasperated, "I won't for another week. It's not my job to support your gambling!" She divvied up her pay hiding it at home, Giry's or the opera house. It was enough to get them through each month, but not to support his habit.

"It's your duty as a wife to support me," he bit back, petulant.

"I support our life together, not your gambling or drinking," she said, looking back at her script, "When do you go back to working for your father?"

He scoffed at her question, suddenly angry "Then don't bother coming home!" He left without another word. She waved him off, he would throwing a tantrum tonight when he realized she poured out all his liquor.

Her mind briefly flashed to Erik, wondering what he was doing…

The Director suddenly called for her to help with the singers.

She ran a hand through her hair, "Coming!"

No, she shouldn't think about him…

She returned home despite Raoul's warning. A middle-aged woman, named Rita, greeted her as she prepared dinner. She was the help Raoul's father hired after Christine nearly burned down the house when she in denial about her blindness. "How are you? Is Raoul here?" She asked, kissing her on the cheek.

"Well," Rita replied and then lowered her tone, "He's in the study working and in a foul mood."

"When isn't he?" she asked, leaving the kitchen. She found Raoul bent over paper work and the desk vacant of any objects that could have been a bottle. He briefly glanced at her as she leaned in the doorway, his scowl deepened.

"You're sober, how rare."

"Someone poured all the liquor out."

"Shame."

"Indeed," he muttered, scribbling on papers furiously.

Rita then called for dinner and Christine left, shutting the study door behind her. When Raoul did not join them, Rita retrieved a wine bottle to go with the meal. Christine smiled as they talked amiably, going silent when the door slammed opened. Rita had left the bottle on the table and it was too late to hide it. Raoul grabbed in filling a glass and took his seat ignoring them. In uncomfortable silence, Raoul's face only darkened. "Fine," he muttered, finishing his glass, shoved his chair away and grabbed the bottle and his plate leaving for the study again. He kicked the door shut.

Rita jumped at the sound; Christine was unfazed, resuming their conversation.

Afterwards she bid Rita goodnight who offered to stay or have her come with her. Christine soothed fears, kissing her cheek. "I will see you tomorrow," she promised, "Good night."

Once Rita has left the courtyard, Christine locked the door and threw open the study door. Raoul glared at her as he laid back in his chair with his feet on his desk, cradling the half empty bottle. "What do you want?" he mumbled raising it to his lips. She didn't answer as she came up, grabbed the bottle from his hands and threw it against the wall. Glass exploded and painted it red. "What the hell was that for?!" He shouted as she shoved his feet off the desk. He fell forward was ungraciously and rose to his feet. He was not in the mood…

She slapped him, not even nearly satisfied, "_That_ was for asking for _my_ money today."

He grabbed her hand when she went to strike him again and the other by her throat, shoving her into the wall. "Will you injure my voice as well?" She goaded, "The bruises may heal but if I can't sing…"

"You will be more useless than you are now," he tightened his grip, cutting off her air. Her free hand struck out raking her nails against his uninjured cheek. He hissed, turning his head to side. He slammed her wrist caught in his grip into the wall before bringing it to his lips. He grip was bruising and his knuckles were white and shaking. "Why do you make it so hard to love you?" He asked quietly.

His grip loosened around her throat. She took deep breathes to sooth her burning lungs, but she wasn't afraid. His eyes were clouded, roaming about her face, only seeing disdain. "Answer me Christine."

"You're a wretched creature when you drink."

"You once loved me," he mused releasing her throat and didn't hear her, "You use to. I remember that way you welcomed my touch…" His drunk lips were upon hers in a sloppy kiss. His breathe stank of the wine, it soured his tongue when he gripped her wrist painfully to make her gasp.

He wouldn't have heard her if she said no. She learned a long time ago that the word 'no' only brought more bruises.

His hand fumbled with his laces of his breeches before pushing up her skirts. She shoved at his shoulder, he growled at her. "The bed idiot. Not the wall." With that he pulled away, yanking her with him. In the bedroom, she removed her dress before he could tear it. She couldn't afford to replace it or didn't want to explain to the seamstress how she tore another one.

Raoul shoved her onto the bed, the drunk only managed to remove his boots before giving up. His clothes were rough against her skin, he no longer wore the high class silks like before. She stared at the ceiling, trying her best to ignore him, the uncoordinated grasp at her breasts as he was suddenly pressing his full weight onto her. His kiss was bruising and she propelled backwards to find oil on the nightstand. He huffed in indignation taking it and soon breached her. The oil helped, but he moved harshly. He seemed determined to make her cry out, leaving bruises on her hips and arms.

She hated him. She abhorred this stranger who claimed to be her husband.

His touch made her sick, it was rough, harsh, and calloused. But her Raoul was in there somewhere and it was still his body. These were still his lips, his hands, his flesh, his scent. She closed her eyes and focused only on his smell and his touch. Even though he only focused on finding his pleasure in her, he still made her toes curl and her back arch as she called out his name. In the end, he rolled off her, seemingly disgusted and turned his back to her. She did the same. Tears stained the pillow as she dreamed of Erik's gentle touch.


End file.
